by Chris Mooney
White lights danced across the old bedroom walls. Darby looked out of the grimy bedroom window at the faces gathered below her.
The locals had pretty much packed it in for the night but the media seemed to have doubled in size. Reporters, cameramen and photographers stood shoulder to shoulder behind the sawhorses, every one of them anxiously staring at the front door. Word had leaked about the remains.
Edgar’s nasal voice came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Dr McCormick. What’s the address?’
She gave it to him. ‘Do you know how to get to Charlestown?’
‘No, but it doesn’t matter. My wife purchased a portable GPS unit for my car, so even a directionally challenged person like myself will have no trouble finding the address. Now tell me what you found.’
‘Three sets of remains, one in a state of advanced decomposition. The other two are fully skeletonized. They appear female. You can forget using dental records to ID the remains. Their teeth were pulled out before they were buried. And the person or persons who did it also cut off their hands and feet. It’s a classic mob burial before the days of DNA.
‘I sifted through the dirt and didn’t find any metacarpal or carpal bones. When you examine the tibia, you’ll see grooves that I think are consistent with a circular saw.’
‘Hopefully we can ID them through some other means,’ Edgar said. ‘I’d hate to use mitochondrial DNA testing. It’s very time consuming, in addition to being expensive.’
Edgar was worried about the city’s bean counters. Not a good sign.
‘There may be more remains buried down here,’ she said. ‘I dug up only a small part of the dirt cellar. A good part of it is laid in concrete, so I’d like you to bring in your sonar equipment. You’ll also need some additional bodies to help move the furniture. The space is rather small, so I’d suggest no more than three or four people.’
‘Dr Carter left me a list of graduate students. I don’t have the list handy, so I’ll have to stop by my office first. I apologize: I’m not usually this disorganized.’
‘There’s no rush. You’ll be here for a while – probably a good part of the night.’ And so will I, Darby added privately. She had called in additional forensic teams to help process the house.
‘Dr McCormick, unless there’s some urgency, I’d prefer to examine the remains in situ.’
‘I thought you might. I did a little digging around the bones to see if I could find any clothing or jewellery that might help us, but, other than that, everything is undisturbed.’
‘Thank you,’ Edgar said. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
Darby snapped her phone shut, wishing she could go home and take a long shower. Her damp clothes clung to her skin and she felt as grimy as this bedroom’s window. She glanced at her watch. Half past ten.
Flashbulbs started popping from the street. She could hear the rapid machine-gun click-click-click of dozens of cameras snapping pictures, like this was a goddamn paparazzi event, as the two male attendants from the medical examiner’s office, wearing masks and coveralls, walked down the front steps carrying a black body bag holding Peter Alan. Cameras were held in the air to capture and record the footage. Cameramen stood on the roofs of news vans and cars, on the pavement and front stoops, along with some of the neighbours. Across the street, on the corner, a woman wearing a pink tank top and matching short-shorts stood barefoot on the front stairs of a home talking to a burly, bald man.
That’s the driver of the brown van. He’s wearing the same light grey suit and brown trousers.
Without taking her eyes off him, Darby opened her phone and hit the programmed number for Coop’s mobile.
‘Where are you?’ she asked when he answered.
‘I’m in the basement.’
‘Go upstairs to the living room and look out of the window facing the street. I’ll explain when you get there.’
Baldy stood close to the woman, speaking near her ear. The woman’s arms were crossed over her chest and she stared down at her bare feet.
Darby glanced around the street. No sign of a brown van. It’s probably parked on one of the side streets.
‘Okay,’ Coop said, ‘I’m here.’
‘Look across the street to your right. See the woman with the tight pink shorts? Has the word “trouble” stitched across her ass?’
‘I see her.’
‘The guy standing to her right, the one that’s built like a beer keg? I saw him this morning in Belham – he was the one driving the van,’ Darby said. ‘I want you to keep an eye on him while I talk to Jennings.’
35
Darby clipped the phone to her belt as she moved out of the bedroom. She took the steps quickly and made her way through the officers packed inside the kitchen.
Jennings stood in the archway between the kitchen and the living room. She stepped up beside him, catching sight of Coop watching the street through one of the windows, then turned to the crowd. Jennings was still talking when she cut him off.
‘Excuse me, Detective. Gentlemen, I need your attention here, and I need it now… Thank you. I have to speak quickly, so listen up. There’ll be no follow-up questions.’
She had organized her thoughts and spoke quickly but clearly.
‘Jackson Cooper is in the living room watching an older white male standing across the street. This man is bald, about six feet, and built like a beer keg. He’s wearing a light grey sports jacket and brown dress trousers. He’s also armed. This is a person of interest both for this investigation and for the one that’s currently under way in Belham. He’s working with one or more people who may be posing as Federal agents. They may be driving a brown van with a Mass. licence plate.’
She gave them the plate number. ‘Even if the van isn’t here, I’m sure he didn’t come alone. I want you to form groups and create a perimeter by going to the following street corners.’
She knew Charlestown well and rattled off the street names. Then she turned to Coop and said, ‘Is the subject still across the street?’
‘He is,’ Coop said.
‘Okay, good,’ she said, turning back to the men. ‘Get a visual before you leave. Under no circumstances are you to use your radios. I believe these people are monitoring police frequencies.’
She pointed to a man standing directly in front of her and said, ‘Give me your mobile phone number.’
He did. She quickly programmed it into her phone.
‘What’s your name?’ Darby asked.
‘Gavin.’
‘If I need assistance or if there’s a problem, I’ll contact Gavin. I’ll let Detective Jennings take over from here.’
‘And what are you going to do?’ a patrolman in the back asked.
‘I’m going to introduce myself,’ Darby said, ‘welcome him to the neighbourhood.’
Soft laughter.
She opened the back door to an alley of rubbish bins and black bags She ran across the alley, then hooked a left and sprinted across Thatcher Street, the gun holster knocking against her hip. Now a right on to Grover. In less than a minute she’d reach Grafton. Take a right there, run across it and then make her way back up to the top of Old Rutherford Street, where Baldy was standing. Maybe three minutes of running total.
All those mornings spent running in her SWAT gear had paid off. She felt light and fast on her feet and made good time.
She banged a right on to Grafton, surprised to see Baldy trotting across the pavement in his leather wingtips.
Why hadn’t Coop called her?
Darby slowed to a walk, beads of sweat running down her forehead and into her eyes. Her heart pounded, but she wasn’t winded.
Baldy stepped underneath a street light and she could see a mobile phone pressed against his ear. He had a good five inches on her – he was six foot two, she guessed – and he was twice as wide. She also got a good look at his pockmarked face. No question this was the same man she’d seen earlier today.
Baldy’s eyes cut to her. She
was removing her sidearm when he abruptly turned and ducked down an alley between two apartment buildings.
Shit. Darby started running.
A moment later she reached the corner leading into the alley, heard footsteps echoing. She turned into it and saw his shadow sprinting past rubbish bins. She gave chase, slowing when she reached the next corner. She turned, saw him running into the street, and followed.
Baldy wasn’t in good shape but for such a big man he ran fast and well. And he had a solid lead.
Darby was closing the gap when she heard a car door shut. Tyres peeled away in a screech of rubber. By the time she reached the street, she caught a flash of a dark car before it disappeared.
36
Jamie placed the electric clippers on top of the newspapers with which she’d covered the bathroom vanity. She’d shave her hair down after she saw Michael. He had come out of his room earlier to use the bathroom. She hoped he hadn’t locked his bedroom door again.
He hadn’t.
She slid the door open and saw him lying on his side, fast asleep.
The right side of his face was swollen.
Michael didn’t stir when she pulled back the sheets and climbed into his bed. She wrapped an arm around his waist.
This is the only way I can touch my child: by sneaking into his bed while he’s asleep. This is the only way I can feel close to him.
Her eyes stung. Blinking back tears, she kissed his cheek and then lay close next to him, wide awake. Underneath his T-shirt she could feel the thick, rubbery scar on his chest from where the doctors had operated on him to save his life.
I’m so sorry for everything you’ve gone through, Michael – for everything you’re still going through. If there were a way I could fix it, I would. I swear to God I would.
Michael stirred awake. His head popped up, his voice groggy, thick with sleep. He expected to see Carter – sometimes his younger brother crawled into bed. When Michael saw her, he looked alarmed.
‘What’s wrong? Are you sick?’
‘I’m… ah… okay.’
His glare was as cold and unforgiving as an X-ray.
‘What’s that… You smell like the way the air does after fireworks have gone off.’
He smells the cordite, she thought. No amount of scrubbing with soap and water could remove the gunpowder odour. She had tried using the recipe given to her by her firearms instructor – scrubbing hands with lemons. Apparently, it hadn’t worked.
‘Your… your, ah… face, what… ah… ah…’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ His head slumped back against the pillow.
‘Fight?’
He didn’t answer. He had turned back towards the window.
‘Direct… ah… camp director… ah… she… called.’
He sighed. ‘I got in a fight with Tommy Gerrad today.’
‘Why?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I had to go to Miss French’s office. While I was there, I told her I didn’t want to be there any more, so I guess you’re stuck with me.’
Jamie kissed the back of his head and hugged him. She felt his body stiffen.
He didn’t push her away, though. He didn’t remove her arm.
‘Sorry,’ she said, and hugged him again. ‘Sorry for… way Tommy… ah… ah… how he… hurt you.’
Michael didn’t answer.
‘Love,’ she said. ‘Love… ah… you.’
‘You went to him first.’
Jamie froze.
‘You thought you could save only one of us,’ he said, ‘and you chose Carter.’
‘No,’ she said, clutching him. ‘I –’
‘I was there, remember? I saw you.’ His voice, barely above a whisper, was stripped of emotion. ‘You went to him first.’
He was right. She had gone to Carter first. After she managed to free herself from the chair, after she had called 911, she had used the kitchen knife to cut the tape binding his eighteen-month-old brother to the chair and started doing CPR on Carter while Michael, still tied to the chair, bled out. Her focus was on saving Carter first: he was so small, had been shot twice and was losing blood fast. By the time the EMTs arrived, Michael had passed out. Michael remembered what had happened, and this knowledge had lain between them for years, lengthening the already considerable distance between them. But this was the first time he had ever spoken the words out loud and it pierced her.
Jamie’s breath came out sharp and fast. The words she needed to speak were stuck somewhere on the broken road between her brain and tongue. She kissed Michael’s neck, feeling her son’s body shudder again, and then, unable to hold it any longer, started to cry. She kissed the top of his head, tears streaming down her face, and said, ‘Sorry, Michael. Sorry.’ She whispered the word over and over again, wishing she could travel far away from this bedroom – this house. Pack up and move them some place where their memories would be stripped clean, their scars erased. Where they’d wake up and greet each day without dread, without worry.
37
Darby dialled Patrolman Gavin and told him to get on the horn and pull everyone back. The person of interest had escaped. She hung up and went looking for Coop.
She didn’t have to look far. She found him talking to the attractive woman in the tight pink shorts with the word ‘trouble’ stitched across her ass. Her name was Michelle Baxter. She had attended school with Coop, from kindergarten all the way through Charlestown High School.
Baxter reeked of beer and cigarettes. She wore bright red lipstick and had gone heavy on the makeup and eyeliner. She smiled and flirted with Coop, acting as if everyone around her had come out of their homes to attend a late-night block party.
‘Where do you live, Michelle?’ Darby asked.
‘Right here.’ Baxter waved a hand to the apartment building behind her. ‘You want a beer or something?’
‘Thank you, but no. We’re on duty. Can we talk upstairs?’
‘Sure, why not?’ Baxter stubbed out her cigarette and walked up the steps.
Coop turned to Darby and said, ‘Let me talk to her alone first. You know the deal about Charlestown – nobody will talk to the cops. I live here, so I might be able to get her to open up.’
‘The only thing that woman wants to do with you, Coop, is to find a way to get you into her bed. Besides, she invited both of us up. I think she’ll talk to me.’
The dank stairwell smelled of stale cigarettes and cat urine. Someone was playing the Stones’ ‘Gimme Shelter’. Baxter swayed as she climbed the stairs.
‘Here,’ Coop said, grabbing her arm. ‘Let me help you.’
‘Christ, you’re beautiful.’ She kissed his cheek, leaving a lipstick mark. Giggling, she turned to Darby. ‘Isn’t he sexy?’
‘The sexiest,’ Darby replied.
The woman’s fifth floor apartment had scratched hardwood floors and mismatched Salvation Army furniture. The kitchen table and worktops were covered with papers, magazines, packets of Ramen noodles and generic soda cans.
Baxter wanted to smoke, so she led them out to a balcony. Blue and white lights flashed from down the street. The whole neighbourhood was awake, and Darby saw more than one face crowding a window, watching the street.
Coop slid the sliding glass door shut, then stood against the back wall with his arms crossed over his chest. Baxter sat in a plastic lawn chair, propped the heels of her bare feet up on the railing and lit a cigarette.
Darby leaned the small of her back against the railing, gripping it with both hands as Michelle Baxter tilted back her head and blew a long stream of smoke into the muggy air. Grey clouds wafted through the thongs and lacy bras hanging on the clothesline above Baxter’s head.
‘The man you were talking to earlier, the guy dressed in the grey suit jacket,’ Darby said. ‘You told us he was a cop.’
‘That’s right,’ Baxter said, brushing the fringes of her chemically treated blonde hair away from her boozy, bloodshot eyes. ‘Flashed a badge and everything.’
�
�By everything, do you mean you also saw his picture ID?’
‘No, just the badge.’
‘What was his name?’
‘Don’t know. He didn’t introduce himself. Some people just don’t have any goddamn manners, you know?’ Baxter smiled but her eyes were dead. ‘You from around here?’
‘I grew up in Belham.’
‘That’s not Charlestown.’
‘I know.’
‘It’s different here.’
‘How so?’
‘Just… different.’ Baxter took a long drag from her cigarette. ‘I read about you in the papers, when you caught that sicko who was hacking up women in his basement. You’re some sort of doctor. Can you prescribe medication and shit?’
‘I’m not that type of doctor.’
‘That’s too bad. So what kind of doctor are you?’
‘I have a doctorate in criminal behaviour.’
‘Explains why you’re with him.’ Baxter pointed to Coop.
Darby smiled.
‘I keep seeing the two of you around town,’ Baxter says. ‘You guys dating, or is it one of those friends-with-benefits things?’
Coop spoke up. ‘Darby has much higher standards.’
‘It’s true, I do,’ Darby replied. ‘Michelle, this cop you were talking to, when he flashed his badge, what did it look like?’
‘Like how a badge looks. Like the one you got clipped to your belt.’
‘Describe it to me.’
‘You know, gold. Metal. Had “Boston Po-lice” written on it.’
‘What did he want to talk to you about?’
‘He wanted to know who I’d seen coming and going from Kevin Reynolds’s house.’
Darby waited. When the woman didn’t speak, she said, ‘And what did you tell him?’
‘I told him that I didn’t see anything,’ Baxter said, ‘and that’s the truth.’
‘Why did he talk to you, though?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Why did he single you out?’
Baxter shrugged. Her eyes became veiled, and she retreated back inside a place she had probably spent most of her life – a place behind heavily fortified walls and locked doors where no one could reach her.
